


The Band of Brothers Oz AU Fic Nobody Asked For

by gottapenny (dickjokesanddoilies)



Category: Band of Brothers, Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Antisemitism, Graphic Description, M/M, Oz AU, Seriously if you've seen Oz then you kNOW HOW BAD ITS GONNA GET, Slurs, liebgott being a badass nazi killer tho.... nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickjokesanddoilies/pseuds/gottapenny
Relationships: ...mentioned, Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Bill Guarnere/George Luz/Joseph Toye, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, Eugene Roe/Richard Winters, Johnny Martin/Bull Randleman, Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	1. The Routine

_Prisoner #97W412; David “Kenyon” Webster. Convicted July 5th, 2019. Driving While Intoxicated. Vehicular Manslaughter. Sentence: 15 years; up for parole in 4_

David stood out like a sore thumb immediately in Easy; from his open, honest face to his well-ironed suit that still smelled like the courthouse. Hell, with those depthless blue eyes and his constantly-hung open mouth, the guy practically had “FIRST TIME OFFENDER” stamped across his ass. Not that Liebgott hadn’t already checked his ass out, of course. He couldn’t help himself; it was, tragically, a pretty goddamn fantastic ass. That great ass wouldn't serve the guy in here, of course. Liebgott blew a cloud of smoke out from the corner of his mouth, feeling sickened as he watched the newbie stumbling towards his cell. Damn shame.

* * * *

“A damned shame, that is.”

Council was in session as per usual in the common area, with all the usual suspects huddled around the same tiny card table almost comically. Guarnere shuffled the deck as he spoke, cigarette hung perpetually from the corner of his scowling mouth. Toye’s mood was equally somber as the crowd watched the new guy hastily ignoring the jeering and wolf whistling, still managing to put a nervous smile on his face when one of the other inmates made a pass at him.

“How long ya think until the Aryan’s get their hooks in ‘em?” the latino gang leader mumbled, glaring at his set of cards like they were a personal affront to him.

“Aw, who knows, Big Guy?” George Luz came bouncing into yet another meeting he had not been necessarily invited to, but fucked was the fella who would dare make mention of it to either Toye or Guarnere, “ Maybe this one’ll be different! I was!”

“Yeah, but that’s cause YOU, Luz, are butt-fuckin’ ugly.” Guarnere gently nudged the younger man, and the way his dark eyes softened when the other men weren’t looking betrayed the sincerity of those words.

“Nuh-uh! C’mon, Toye’ll tell ya! In the old days, before I had any jizz of course, Joey used to have to kick a different guy’s ass every day! And all to protect my sweet, well-toned ass.”

“What’ve I told you about the ‘Joey’ shit?”

“That you find it devastatingly sexy?”

“Luz, I’m gonna shank you one of these days.” Everybody in the prison knew there was no real threat to Toye’s words, none more so than George Luz himself.

“Ey! Then you’d lose your ingenious route of tits, mister!”

“Not to mention that apparently well-toned ass.” Guarnere couldn’t resist adding, earning a sharp glare from Toye, an eyeroll from Buck, a chuckle from Malarkey, and a wet, awful kiss on the cheek from Luz.

“Fuck both ‘a ya. And get that shit outta my face; nobody wants to see it!” Toye snapped, almost regretting it when he saw the chastised look on George’s usual happy face. Toye hated reminding Luz of the precarious position he was in always; not seemingly belonging to any group and not knowing when he shouldn’t run his big mouth. Plus, unfortunately for all present parties: Luz wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes.

“Plus, Georgie, I been in the showers with you okay? Your ass is flat as a fuckin pancake.”

Undermining his word a bit was more than worth it to see that shit-eating grin spread across Luz’s face once more.

* * * *

_Prisoner #97L444; Joseph Liebgott. Convicted February 23rd, 2016. Aggravated Assault in the 1st Degree. Sentence: 8 years; up for parole in five._

Liebgott watched from the other side of the room as Webster ran into his own pod in a huff, confronting fucking Adebisi of all people, the latter of which had been going through David’s shit. What the shit was that stupid kid up to now? He grimaced as he watched Adebisi grasp Webster by the back of the neck, shaking him like he was a puppy. Liebgott’s guts churned as he watched Adebisi croon something to the petrified looking Webster, and he for some reason couldn’t take his eyes off of Adebisi’s thumb as he stroked across one of the blue-eyed idiot’s pronounced cheekbones. He felt fucking stupid when he let out a breath as Adebisi finally let Webster go; not in the mood for vicious abuse just yet.

Joe’s quest for self hatred continued as he found himself searching the sea of angry faces during dinner for the one sullen, almost pouting face. It was fucking terrible, watching the guy pause in the middle of the goddamned cafeteria searching for a possible seat, like this was some kind of summer camp rather than a fucking prison. At first he tried to sit with his sponsor, Frank Perconte, but seeing’s there was nothing remotely italian about him, that gained little traction. Joe was suffering from 2nd hand embarrassment as the kid eventually settled on the practically empty table, save for a few crazies and the two really old lifers who’s hearts weren’t in the game anymore. That embarrassment swiftly turned to 1st hand, though, as he watched the leader of The Aryans swaggering towards the kid, and Liebgott found himself making haste over to the empty seat across from Webster before that scumfuck Schillinger had the chance.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“I-”

“No? Great.”

  
Webster watched as Joe shook the everloving shit out of his carton of oj wordlessly, suspicions rising the longer the two sat in silence. Thanks to Adebisi, along with pretty much half of the guys in Easy, David had learnt not to trust the kindness of strangers in here so readily. “Good, “ Joe thought to himself as David scowled oh-so prettily at him, “he may survive this place yet.” His unspoken questions were answered shortly as Vern Shillinger, accompanied by two other Aryans, loomed over Liebgott’s shoulder; his broad form casting a shadow over Liebgott’s entire, skinny body.

“Jew boy.”

“Nazi fuckwad.”

David’s shoulders were up to his ears as a thin, predatory grin fell across Vern’s features, his blue eyes shining meanly as they slid from the top of Liebgott’s messy hair downward. Liebgott, for all David could tell, couldn’t care less about Vern’s oppressive stare, slurping his oj with purposeful intent. He cringed as the nazi’s stare flipped to him, landing not-so-subtly on David’s mouth in a way that made him want to crawl underneath the table. He was suddenly envious of Liebgott’s devil-may-care ways.

“You girls talking about what life as a prag is like? I’m sure sweet David is curious. “

‘How the fuck does this Nazi know my name?!” His nails dug into the table top, but no one except Liebgott seemed to notice. He was mortified when Liebgott hummed in ready agreement, face splitting into a smug smirk that whispered of a lifetime of mischief;

“Mhm, just warning David bout how microscopic your dick is, Schillinger. Warned ‘im to bring tweezers.”

David had enough survival instincts to just barely contain his laughter, in awe of how cool Liebgott was even when Vernon threatened to slit his throat. Liebgott just continued to grin at David from the other side of the table as one of the CO’s attention was grabbed, and Vernon was ordered to move his ass along.

“Hooly shit!” David was apparently not jaded enough to not smile like a fucking idiot at Joe, and he winced at the worship in David’s tone, “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?” Joe asked dismissively, digging his thumb into his orange and silently praying for Webster to shut the fuck up. A fool’s errand, he would come to learn.

“You just...you stood up to that nazi like it was nothin’!”

“Hm, yeah. Well, I don’t fucking take too kindly to nazis. That fucker messes with you again, you lemme know, alright?”

It was like the words were pouring out of his mouth without his permission, and he was screaming internally with every dumb, fucking word. The fuck was he doing? He had no business offering protection to some kid he barely knew; he didn’t owe nobody nothin’! And that’s how Liebgott liked it, damnit! He felt his heart fill with bitter resentment for this naive, blue-eyed fucker who’d managed to get under his skin in two goddamned days.

Two. Goddamned. Days.

* * * *

It merely took one more close call between David and Adebisi for Liebgott to open his big, fat mouth and suggest that the kid talk to Winters about moving into Lieb’s pod with him. Honestly, he disgusted himself, but at least to the other inmates, he could brush off his uncharacteristic charitobility as an attempt to take something that belonged to the Aryans; something that belonged to Vern Fucking Schillinger.

Oh yeah, there was history there between Liebgott and Schillinger alright. Vernon, if pressed on it, would cite that “no jew was a good jew” or perhaps claim ties to the dirty nazi cop that Liebgott had murdered. But anybody who took a step closer could see the ugly, volatile truth. Truthfully, Liebgott knew that his pretty face and cunning mouth made Vernon’s dick twitch, and that offense on top of his-inherit offense of being born Jewish made him worse than fucking Satan in the nazi’s eyes. It was pathetic, is what it was, but there was nothing Liebgott could do about it. Apart from airhole that fucker himself, but he was no fool, and he knew that if Vernon were to take a dip, his name would be the first that crossed everyone’s mind. So, no, while Liebgott fantasized about 101 different ways to cut Vern down, he’d contented himself by being a continuous thorn in the Aryan’s side, until they both rotting in the ground. Taking the pretty, blue-eyed lawyer under his wing was just another means to that end; Webster was nothing more than yet another pawn in Liebgott’s game. Joe just fucking wished Webster had been uglier.

“I can’t thank you enough for this, Jose-”

“Liebgott.” He corrected curtly, soothing his agitation by imagining a shank sinking into that long, tanned neck over and over. Fuck, he needed another cigarette or ten.

“So, what now?”

Joe raised his eyebrow, giving Webster an incredulous look: “Now? You shut the fuck up.”

He should’ve known that would never be the end of it for Webster; Christ, maybe Liebgott should’ve just let Vern have him if he was going to be so goddamned annoying all the time!

“Er, okay, but I meant in the long-term, you know? We’re gonna need a plan if we plan to get outta here with our lives, Lieb.”

Perhaps it was the unauthorized nickname, or the dreaded use of the word “we”, but Liebgott found himself pressing a shank to the delicate skin of Webster’s throat, the fires of his anger soothed somewhat as renewed terror made those sea-blue eyes bright.

“First off, “ Liebgott grit out quietly, dangerously, “ there is no ‘plan’, ‘cause I don’t owe you nothin’, faggot. Second off, there ain’t no ‘we’. There’s just me, and the rest a’ the scumfucks in this place. I ain’t ever owed nobody nothing, and I ain’t about to start now. We clear?”

He could see it: the argument brewing on David’s tongue, the fury that made his body tense and that full mouth quiver; Liebgott’s hysterical mind almost wanted for Webster to grow a pair and fight him on it. But of course, this was Easy, and everybody in Liebgott’s life lived to disappoint, and so David only replied with a dissatisfied, curt little nod.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” Liebgott thought, rubbing a hand down his face as he stormed out of their pod. Their pod….fuck.

* * * *  
“Yo, Liebster!” George Luz’s presence was as undesirable as whatever the fuck that terrible nickname was to Joe, who shouldered the bouncing ball of convict none-too gently.

“Aww, c’mon now handsome! I just wanted to ask how the honeymoon’s been treating you!”


	2. Episode Two: Visits, Conjugal and Otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SERIOUSLY TW FOR INTENSE SLURS AND OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE! Also graphic mentions of rape/sexual violence :(((

Liebgott didn't have the presence of mind to realize he’d become comfortable in the routine of things here in Easy; after four years the routine was the routine. Once he’d somehow managed to gain the favor of Guarnere and Toye’s pet drug dealer, George, the days of carrying a shank to every workout had slowly become nothing more than a distant memory. Even before those days, when it seemed like a different guy everyday tried to make a grab for his ass or unkindly suggested that Liebgott’s snarling mouth could be put to better use, Liebgott would set them straight by doing something crazy. He’d done what he’d had to survive in a prison system that was inherently racist, anti-semetic, and had taken one look at Liebgott’s small frame and slapped a “Victim” label on him. Nowadays, men knew to keep their dicks away from crazy, fearing that he’d bite it off like he had Robson’s. 

“Liebgott’s fuckin’ crazy man; I wouldn’t mess with ‘im if I were you. Rumor has it he killed a cop, all because the guy laid his hands on ‘im! Don’t stick yer dick in crazy, bro. You’re better off trying to get head from a great white shark.” 

The Aryans were the only ones who were vindictive and suicidal enough to keep prodding at him, and that was only because they were under the orders of Vern, who wouldn’t rest til he’d either fucked Liebgott to death or bled him out like a pig for all of Easy to see. But even Vern struggled to get within spitting distance of him, what with Liebgott’s crazy and the Wiseguys and/or the Latinos shadowing him from afar. 

But that afternoon, as Liebgott went to beat another punching bag into submission since his dumbass conscious wouldn’t allow him to do that to Webster, he didn’t think about how preoccupied the Gang Leaders in Easy were with the tits trade. Toye had recently run into some opposition as some new hot shot from the street scene, Moralez or something, claimed he was “so busy sticking it in white boys that he’d become white himself”. It was all smoke and mirrors, seeing as any and all history sexual and otherwise between Toye and Guarnere or Luz or whoever the fuck was merely speculation. Nevertheless, the other Latinos saw an opportunity for a regime change that would get them out from under the Wiseguys’ thumb, and faltering loyalties had to be dealt with swiftly and brutally if you had any chance of survival in here. These were all things Liebgott knew; hell, he’d survived this long by keeping his head down and his ears open to all of the petty bullshit that Easy ran on. It was all that irritating, beautiful rich-boy’s fault that Joe forgot the reality of his precarious position for one fatal moment. Webster was under his skin, in his bloodstream, coating the backs of his teeth. 

The crowd of white-supremacists filed into the gym on near silent feet, greedy eyes taking in a, for once, unguarded Joseph Liebgott in his prime. It was a nice treat for the evil bastards, to be able to drink their fill of the tight-assed criminal without the threat of bodily harm being thrown in their faces. The crowd filled with perverted grin and bloodthirsty smirks parted as Vernon stepped forwards, also taking in the long lines of Liebgott’s toned, pale body before finally wolf-whistling lowly to alert the younger man of their presence. The way that all of the color drained out of the dark-haired boy’s face would be something Vernon played over and over in his mind’s eye as he took his dick in hand many a lonely night in his cell. It was written all over the younger man’s face as his quick eyes darted over the half-dozen men that surrounded him; he was fucked. Maybe not just figuratively either.

* * * * 

David wasn’t all too sure what was wrong with him, or who he thought he was as he trailed slowly after Liebgott’s stomping feet. He found it was no small feat to keep a steady grip on the weapon he’d concealed in his sweaty palm; the melted cafeteria spoon feeling more like a prop than any sort of weapon in his less-than capable hands. Liebgott had bluntly advised him to “get himself a weapon, armor up, and quit fuckin’ smilin’ so much”, but the shorter man probably wouldn’t have believed that David had actually gone and _taken_ that advice. Based on how Liebgott treated him, the guy probably thought it was a wonder David was able to _feed_ himself, which ticked David off to no end. But when he’d snapped back and told Joe that he _had_ read books on prison, Joe had only laughed in his face and mockingly asked him if he’d done “homework for prison”. It’d only gotten worse when Joe’s er….friends (the guys that he begrudgingly played cards with sometimes) joined in on the laughter. 

Whatever, David’s prison homework had gotten him this far: he’d obtained a shank, he’d quelled his natural urge to smile that tended to enrage the testosterone-machines in this place, and he’d even stuffed a phonebook down the front of his uniform to use as “armour”. He never accepted any overly friendly help (....except from Liebgott), and never looked another man in the eyes…except Liebgott’s. His particular copies, however, had failed to include such important chapters like: Chapter 6 “What if the head of the nazi’s decides he’d like to rape you”, or Chapter 2 “How to Save Face when the Biggest man You’ve ever seen Asks you to have Sex with Him so that You’ll Know how a Real Man Feels Rather than Liebgott”. That was the secondary issue David could not shirk; four days he’d been in Oz and the men had already decided what David’s role ought to be. _Two days_ sharing a cell with Liebgott, where the other man had stuck so far to the other side of their pod that it was bordering on comical, and still the words “Webster”, “bitch”, and “Liebgott” seemed to grow more and more commonplace in Oz. Everywhere he went, he had gotten used to the catcalls; what he was _not_ able to grapple with how often that fucker was including in his objectification. No, now it wasn’t just “how’s about you suck me off, Blue Eyes?”, now it was “How’s about you suck me off; swear it’d make it better than that jew ever could.” A cloud of white, hot fury hung above David’s head as he helplessly watched himself transform from “bitch” to “Liebgott’s bitch”...and he hadn’t even ever touched the guy. 

Not that he would! I mean, sure, David could reconcile with the fact that there was something captivating about Liebgott. His hair was always mussed just _so_ that David was _convinced_ it was purposeful, and the way the thin, pale convict prowled about the prison like he owned the place held some kind of sensual, animalistic quality to it that, for all his many poems, he couldn’t name. Not to mention the picture of sin Liebgott kindly painted every morning as he wrapped his ruddy mouth around the yet-another cigarette and hollowed his cheeks out so that his razor sharp cheekbones stood out even more stark than usual. _C’mon the guy had to know what he looked like when he did that!_

But, other than all those things, David didn’t get the appeal. Joe was _mean_. And pissy as all hell; seriously, that guy went through more mood changes than his little sister had when she was pregnant. One minute it was “would ya’ quit lookin’ so damned sad and teach me that card game again?” and then the next he was slinging slurs in David’s face and threatening to disembowel him if he ever spoke to him again. Trying to maintain any sort of lasting friendship with Liebgott was like trying to pet a rabid dog and then being shocked when it bit you. 

The only small bit of sanity David had been able to obtain was through Joe’s friends, who spoke with surprising encouragement whenever David griped to them about his “Liebgott Predicament” . Well, okay, mostly ONE of Joe’s friends spoke; Bill and Toye mainly communicated strictly in cranky grunts and subtle nods. George Luz, a pyromaniac who was always quick to joke and smile, was the only guy here who didn’t seem to care about the risk his reputation might take being seen talking to David. And why did _George_ get to smile and show any sort of joy, without threat of sodemy and/or death?!

‘Aw, cheer up, Web! Don’t give up on our Liebgott! He’s a tough nut to crack, but I got faith in that big ole’ beautiful brain of yours!” 

He’d allowed Luz to ruffle his hair with a grimace, only because he could feel Guarnere and Toye’s eyes on him like a pair of hawks, and threats practically radiated off of them. Oh, well, _that_ explained why George was allowed to bounce around like a babbling toddler at Disney World. That particular trio was one big, fat questionmark to David, but he made sure to keep his questions to himself. Another lesson prison had taught him: curiosity got you killed, and quickly. Still, David had some theories… 

His train of thought was hauled violently back into the present as a sharp, terror-laden sound popped out involuntarily from Joe’s mouth as Schillinger’s white, meaty paw snagged the terrified inmate by the nape of his neck. The sound caused bile to lick at the back of David’s throat; so young-sounding, and high pitched. The type of weak, vulnerable sound that he knew Liebgott would crawl through broken glass before making if he weren’t scared out of his mind. David bit down on a scream that threatened to burst forth as he watched the nazi’s rough, calloused thumb grind up against the sharp occipital bone of Joe’s skull, systematically grinding that artfully boned face into the cement wall as his audience of bigots laughed. 

“Lookie here, boys. Looks like we finally caught this little fuckhole without his little group of bodyguards for once. Terrible oversight on your part, sweetpea…” Greedy hands scrubbed down Joe’s frozen body grabbing handfuls of his flesh and squeezing harshly. “Lemme guess...did my sweet little jew whore get distracted by that pretty little fag with those dick suckin’ lips? Once me and all my men have finished fucking you to death here, I think I’ll swing by...pay sweet little David a vis-”

Joe’s elbow cut into Vern’s exposed stomach so fast David doubted the blow would’ve even registered if it weren’t for the deep, guttural voice the nazi bastard gave. He knew firsthand how thin and sharp those elbows were; probably nearly as effective a shank. Speaking of which… 

Clammy, shaking fingers toyed anxiously with his makeshift spoon as David helplessly watched Joe literally fight for his life. In spite of the incredibly high stakes, he felt a shameless tug of heat in his belly as he took in Joe’s lethal, fluid movements with hungry blue eyes. Vernon, by all accounts, should’ve been able to crush Liebgott with ease. He had his sworn nemesis outweighed, out-muscled, and even out-experienced, given the difference in age between them. And yet, it was clear to him that Joe had probably been fighting all of his life. Despite all of the power he threw into every punch, his body remained loose and he kept his weight light on his feet. By comparison, Vern looked like a lumbering, drunken bear as he tried to take cheap shots, missing Joe’s already ducking head comically. The metaphor that pulled into focus for David, insanely, was dancing. Yes, that was it. Joe when he fought looked powerful, graceful, and composed even when brawling for his life. Beautiful. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t matter how well-practiced he was when he was outnumbered seven times over. The Aryan’s had kept a respectful distance, allowing their leader to get the taste of Liebgott’s blood he’d been salivating for for months now, but they rushed back in when Joe delivered a punishing blow to Shillinger’s face so crushing that it knocked the elder down. As dark, bottomless eyes took in the anti semite's crumpled form, he was allowed only a brief flash of primal satisfaction before three pairs of hands snatched him bone-creaking grips. And finally, finally he shouted. But even then, the shout was not one of fear but a red-hot, caustic sort of anger as the skinny inmate twisted and yowled like a junglecat. All of the color in David’s face evaporated as the noises were cut off by Shillinger’s right hand man, Mark Mack, as the bastard wrapped his fingers around Liebgott’s throat. 

The other men cheered Mack on and a rattling, squeaking sound slipped past Joe’s bleeding mouth that would haunt David for years. Blood rushed like a raging brook in his ears. 

“ _He’s dying. They’ll kill him. He’ll die, he’ll die, he’ll-”_

Some invisible, omnipotent force put David’s feet one in front of the other, two steps out of hiding, but by God’s mercy, common sense stopped him. He wasn’t like Joe; David was the furthest thing from a fighter. What would him gallivanting into the gymnasium brandishing his fucking _spoon_ accomplish, oh apart from getting his and Liebgott’s throat slit. Hand delivering the murder weapon. No, _no,_ David was going to **save** Joe’s life, goddamnit, and that is not how he was going to get that done. And so, instead, he turned silently on his heels and walked out of the gym with his back stiffened. Out in the hallway, his eyes landed immediately on Speirs, a hack that had some bewildering sort of soft spot for Lieb. David knew from witnessing many instances of rebellion from other inmates that Speirs was ruthless, but even so, he knew it was Ron’s job to de-escalate. And Lord Forgive him, but that’s not what David wanted. He wanted Schillinger bleeding out and leaving a permanent scarlett stain in the mats that the Aryan Brotherhood would have to stare at every single day for the rest of their pathetic lives. The bloodlust that spiked in him scared the everloving shit out of David, but he saw its use, and so clung to it. He’d been so wrapped up in his skin’s pulsing desire to make the nazi scum suffer that he walked directly into precisely one of the men he’d been searching for. 

Bill barked and his rough, square palms hooked into the meat of David’s shoulders and shook him like a ragdoll. 

“Oi, watch where yer fuckin’ goin, Princess! Yer lucky I’m not some homeboy or-”

Guarnere paused in his (protective) ranting when he saw just how ghostly pale David was, blue eyes unseeing but clearly swallowed up by fear. The punishing shaking stopped, and clever, beady eyes zeroed in on the jagged edge of Webster’s shiv. The kid was shaking so much that he hadn’t even noticed that he’d sliced the flesh of his own palm open, and Bill found himself morbidly transfixed as blood pooled in the other man’s shaking fist. 

“David.” his voice pitched itself into something gentle and almost _sweet_ , and it sounded so foreign coming out of that sneering mouth that David jolted in place.

“David, where the hell is Joe?”


	3. God's Chillin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly shorter chapter this round, but hopefully I can make up for it by introducing perhaps some Winnix goodness next chapter? /blinks coquettishly/

" _ Prisoner number 97S444, George Luz. Convicted June 6, 2016 - Arson in the second degree. Sentence: 18 years, eligible for parole in 5. _ "

The Kitchen Bitches (ie: Skip Muck, Alex Penkala, and Donald Malarkey) all shouted in exaggerated protest as George stubbed out his cigarette with a quiet curse, and left their card game unprompted. He had had  _ enough _ . He marched into Toye’s pod without so much as a knock; a move which would have ensured a stab in the jugular had he been any other inmate. 

Joe had been pacing back and forth in his pod for almost an hour now, and it was driving Luz fucking  _ insane.  _ After he’d lost yet another round- in spite of palming cards- he’d really had no other choice but to confront his friend. As it were, Toye hardly seemed to notice George’s sudden presence, which of course only pissed his sweet, little “Georgie” off even more.

“ **_Joe_ ** ,” He barked out, leaning casually against the front door of Toye’s and Guarnere’s pod (which was looking like it would just be Toye’s pod for a while), “stop pacin’ before you wear a goddamn hole in the floor.” 

The Latino Gang’s unshakable leader snapped his head up, dark eyes wild, like he’d only just noticed he wasn’t alone. Which, holy  _ fuck, _ George could NOT afford to have his main line of protection so utterly off his game like that. Christ, he knew at least five different guys who hoped and prayed every day that Toye and Guarnere would both drop dead so they could prag his ass out. No fucking  _ thank you _ . 

“Can’t help m’self, Georgie.” Toye’s low, smokey voice slurred all of his words together, and for a minute George felt a hot spike of panic that Toye was using again. Guarnere going ahead and getting himself gutted for a pair of mouthy fucking twinks like Liebgott and Webster would be the perfect excuse, “Did ya’ know, Bill hates hospitals? He was a real sickly kid, so he spent a lotta time there… Without a doubt, he’s losin’ his mind in there.” 

George watched as Joe’s strong fingers wrapped around the metal frame of Guarnere’s empty bunk, feeling a dozen’s worth of conflicting feelings: 

“Nah, betcha Doc Roe’s got Ole’ Guarnere on the good shit! ...Seems to me he’s not the  _ only  _ one losin’ his shit.” He threw in pointedly. 

Like clockwork, it set Toye off. He ignored every instinct in his clever little mind that told him to run,or flinch, or immediately give as Joe got up into his face, so angry that spit flecked George’s cheek as he thundered: 

“Got somethin’ to fucking say to me, Georgie? Because I’m not in the mood to pull yer fuckin’ pigtails right now. Now, get the fuck outta my pod.” 

Man, George had the  _ weirdest  _ boner right now. Feeling both horny and bored, he chose to chase that feeling, unwisely.

“Oh yeah, Joe? Anything else you’d  _ like  _ to be pullin’?” 

In the months that George and Joe had known one another, Joe had  _ never  _ laid a violent finger on Luz. But, it seemed that everything inside of Joe was pulled taut with his business partner still in surgery (if rumors were to be believed), and Luz had also prodded a little too far into their “no homo” banter. George’s head smacked the crystal clear glass (Bill was a neat freak and George suspected he had undiagnosed OCD) with a loud thunk as Toye’s thick forearm cut a burning line of steel across George’s throat, and the sudden noise seemed to reverberate around the entire prison. Luz flinched violently as one of the other inmate’s crowed out something crude about “puttin that fairy in his place”, and he saw Joe’s gaze fly rapidly across the cell block in search of the motherfucker. He barely suppressed a full-bodied shiver as his own clever eyes tracked the muscle jumping in Toye’s jawline; without a doubt, that inmate would show up dead sooner or later. Something sick and wrong inside of him turned George on like crazy knowing that Joe would kill for him, and had done so before. Not only was it moving, but the knowledge came with a heady feeling of power. George opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the harsh beam of a flashlight shining directly into his eyes. 

Welsh was a newer CO, a decent fella who never shut up about his wife (not that George was complaining, mind you), and luckily also happened to be Irish As Fuck. And George had made it his single ambition to befriend Edward “Babe” Heffron, the new fresh-faced leader of The Irish Mafia, and son of the late Terrence “O’Terry” Heffron. The very same O’Terry Heffron who’d met a truly nasty end due to some anonymous, rather  _ sexy  _ schmuck putting ground glass into his food. Sure, George had had to work with Adebisi, but the payoff had been worth it. After all, Guarnere had been looking to push Heffron out of the Tits Trade for a while now, and Toye had been looking to partner up with the Wiseguy since he’d landed his ass in Oz. Welsh narrowed his pale eyes and studied them critically; his gap tooth showed a little bit through his frown. 

“Luz...everything alright in here?” 

George tossed him a saucy wink and assured Welsh that ‘things were just peachy!’, but Harry wasn’t satisfied until Toye finally removed his arm and took a step away from George. Finally, Welsh left them with a long sigh, and some half-hearted mumbling about ‘keeping their hands to themselves’, and as he turned to go, the overhead lights began to shudder off. Now in mostly-darkness, George regarded Toye and was stunned-but not surprised-to find a brewing anger in that handsome face. 

“The fuck was that all then?” 

George lit a stale cigarette mainly to have something to do as he tried to keep his voice nonchalant, “Heffron’s pet hack. He an’ I are friends now.”

“ _ Heffron? _ That little mick shit struttin’ his ass around like he’s King of the Hill??” 

A smirk flickered on his pursed lips: “Jealous, Joe?” Honestly, he couldn’t help himself. 

All the fight in Joe seemed to have gone out with the lights, because all that Joe did was sink down unto his bunk heavily, and fish out a cigarette of his own. Greedily, George used the cover of darkness to stare of Joe’s thick, rough fingers, and his full, sexy lips as he sucked in nicotine like the poison could take him away from this place. Watching as his friend’s eyes began to go hazy as his head took him somewhere else, probably to Bill’s bedside, George felt his own resolve crack a little. 

“Bill’s gonna be okay, Joe.” 

Joe reacted as if George had spit in his face, “ Right, yah, that’s what your many ‘informants’ tell you, but...what if they’re wrong, Luz? What fuckin’ then??” 

“Then you fuckin die,” 

Again, Joe whipped his head up, and George took a small victory in seeing his gaze come back into focus.

“I mean, that seems to be the way you’re acting, no?” And oh, George felt like a  _ bastard _ , but he needed Joe to get a grip rightfuckingnow, “Heffron’s got a guy in the ward that says Bill’s gonna be okay. Lieb too, not that you actually give a fuck. But say he’s wrong, huh? Say Bill fucking dies there; what are you gonna do? Give up? You think that’s what Bill fuckin’ wants you to do?? Cry and smoke and snort yourself to death up here?!”

“...Fuck you, Georgie.” Toye finally choked out, turning his face away so George couldn’t see the hot tears burning in his eyes. Oh but George knew they were there; he’d bet his life on it actually. 

“Last time I checked, it’s not your fuckin’ birthday.” George replied snidely, and left Joe’s pod without a second glance behind him. 

* * *

_ Prisoner number 96K423, Edward “Babe” Heffron. Convicted April 16, 2017 - Manslaughter, endangering the welfare of a child. Sentence: 12 years, up for parole in 7. _

A cafeteria tray bumped into George’s as he devoured his breakfast, and without looking up, he already knew exactly who it was. Babe was a sweet kid, honestly, but his eagerness and unwillingness to not act so adorable all the time was bound to get him killed. George would be sad to see him go; unlike the kid’s late father of course. Truth be told, he was even toying around with telling Babe that he’d been the one to ice his Pops; the old bastard used to beat the living shit out of Babe, and was always refusing to let Babe climb the ranks in the Irish Mafia, calling him a “sissy boy” and “weak-minded”. On that last point, O’Terry was right; Babe  _ was  _ weak, and the other inmates could smell it on him like cheap perfume. Absently, George wondered if he could convince Toye to induct Babe into Their Lost Twink Island once he undoubtedly lost all his jizz in Oz. 

“Say George, how’s it hangin’? Mind if I sit?” 

George could feel Joe’s eyes burning into him, but whatever. It was important to show Joe that if the two of  _ them  _ ever had a falling out, George would still have fire power behind him. And also that George’s whole world did not, in fact, revolve around obtaining Joe Toye’s goddamned approval. He gave Babe a minute shrug, and the kid brightened like it was Christmas Day and Luz was Saint Nick himself.  _ Hard to believe this bright-eyed kid threw his baby in the trash. _

“O’Keefe passed along some news about your friends, fyi. Guarnere’s finally awake from his operation; he’s got a scar, but if you ask me, it makes him look badass. And Liebgott woke up hours ago, and is apparently already bitching about how the oj is hurtin’ his throat! Fucker cracks me up!” 

“And Web?” 

The sunshine beam of Babe’s smile dimmed ever so, “ Still alive, but still in the hole. Obviously. Shit, I’m worried about the guy, sort of. I mean, he ain’t from the streets like you an’ me, Luz.” 

Luz quirked an eyebrow at that, talking through his mouthful of mashed potatoes that tasted like dust, “Who says I’m from the streets, Heffron?”

“Aw, c’mon,” something hungry wiggled inside George’s chest at Babe’s nervous little laughter, “you act like ya do!” 

“Maybe that’s just what I want you to think, Babe. Hm? Maybe I’m also a Silverspoon, Soft-Bellied bastard like Webster is.” 

Babe’s thin eyebrows bunched inwards, uncertainty plain across his freckled face, and Jesus George made a mental note to invite Babe to his next betting game, and eventually George decided to take pity on the poor guy. 

“Just yankin’ your chain, kiddo! I’m trailer trash just like the rest of us.” 

A good lie had always tasted so much sweeter on George’s tongue than any hard-to-swallow truths. His big, brown eyes swam lazily across the cafeteria until they finally landed on Toye’s pissed off glare, aimed straight at Luz’s own pretty face. Making sure that nobody was watching, George puckered his lips in a little air kiss, and drank in Joe’s blind fury with no small pleasure. God it was good to be King (and with other Kings wrapped around his little finger to boot). Plus, with Heffron nipping on his heels like an eager little puppy, George felt so goddamned untouchable that he could probably bend over this table for Joe right now, and no one would say a goddamned thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Continuity/Role-Assigning Notes/Clarifications: 
> 
> If any of y'all are as big Oz freaks as I am, you may recognize some of those prisoner numbers/sentencings! I kind of decided to go laid back in terms of assigning foils/roles to specific boys. For example: Babe in this chapter is revealed to be a fairly blatant "Peter Schibetta" surrogate, but his crime profile is Timmy Kirk's because #gingers. And Luz is a pretty mind boggling combination of if Said and O'Reily had a sexy, slutty baby. 
> 
> Also, O'Terry is like if Nino and Seamus had the world's most awful, homophobic baby!


	4. Capital P

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction chapter for: Creator of Easy Company: Mr. Dick Winters, the lackadaisical Warden Dike, Father Carwood Lipton, CO's Ronald Speirs and Buck Compton, and of COURSE the beautiful and youthful Doctor Eugene Roe
> 
> MASSIVE CREDIT AND LOVE TO MY AMAZING BETAS: @mariamegale and @anthrobrat <3333

“-what do you mean ‘of course I like italian food’; it’s a classic!” 

Richard Winters, founder and creator of Easy, stood directly outside the door to his superior’s office and tried to will away the smile on his face. His phone was probably making an impression on his pale cheek by now, but Dick hardly cared. For one, he was absolutely stalling, and two, there was no one on this planet who he’d prefer to talk to than Governor Nixon. Dick cursed his sense of professionalism and ended the call with the promise to show Lew some _proper_ Italian cuisine the next time he was in town. With a big breath in to steel himself, he threw back his shoulders and walked right into Warden Dike’s office. 

Relief filled him instantly at the sight of Speirs and Father Lipton already seated before Dike’s enormous, shining oak desk. Both men, despite being polar opposites as far as Winters was concerned, wore matching masks of icy protection and anger directed right at the warden. Yet again, Dick was comforted by the notion that he’d accidentally surrounded himself with a group of people who would possibly go to their graves for him. He felt equally as honored as he did unworthy about the whole thing. 

Warden Dike watched him sit cooly in the last empty seat, his eyes mean little slits in his jowly face. Dike had always made his strong dislike for Dick Winters’ particular brand of “flighty idealism” widely known, and had never found it difficult to make the younger man’s life a living hell. Lipton was already rolling his eyes as Dike cleared his throat obnoxiously, and Winters struggled not to laugh at such a petty display from the godly man.

“I HAVE THREE DEAD ARYANS AND A FULL-ASS HOSPITAL WARD!” 

Winters and Lipton startled as Dike jumped straight into blowing his lungs out, and C.O. Speirs instinctively reached for his gun, which was as worrisome as it was comical. Feeling rattled, Dick subtly signaled for him to stand down, and faced Dike’s barrage with a calm, level head:

“NOT TO MENTION THAT FUCKING LAWYER WHO YOU _BEGGED_ TO HAVE IN EASY, DICK! Four goddamned days-not even a WEEK, Winters- and his ass got dropped in The Hole! You have any idea how that reflects on me?! Christ, if the media gets ahold of this… not to mention the governor. He’d have my fuckin’ balls, which is exactly what he WANTS.” 

At the mention of Nix, the corner of Lip’s mouth quirked up, and Dick shot his friend an icy warning glare. Christ, sometimes Winters regretted confiding so heavily in the man. For a man of the cloth, he could be a real gossip hound. Speirs, on the flipside, frowned petulantly as Dike badmouthed his friend. He was insane but he was no dummy; he spent enough time taking up space in Lipton’s office to know he was out of the loop. 

“Speaking of Nixon, sir-”

“And if that little jizzball Luz gets his grubby little hands on this?? I fucking KNOW he’ll go to the press; he’s threatened to do so once before! Fucks sake, Liebgott has TOO, the fuckin bigmouthed bastard.”

“Sir, if the gov-”

“Plus, I’ve no doubt that this is EXACTLY the type of distraction Guarnere’s been waiting for so he can start up some REAL shit under my nos-”

The warden’s red faced bellows were abruptly cut off by the ringing of his office phone, which made three out of the four men freeze on the spot. Dick just calmly met Warden Dike’s furious gaze and maintained his well-postured but relaxed position. Lipton covered his mouth to hide an absolutely _delighted_ grin as the phone continued to ring insistently. Realization slowly crept into Dike’s beady eyes as Dick blinked at him plainly.

“I think you ought to get that, Warden. Seems important.”

Dike snarled at the trio to remove themselves from his office as Nixon’s silky voice filled up the tense silence. Something about the casual display of arrogance and power had Dick shivering to himself, and he tampered down on such shameful temptations as he followed his two closest friends outside. Lipton was already giggling as the door slammed behind them, tugging at the sleeve of Dick’s suit jacket with a youthful giddiness that had Dick almost frowning. Such light and exuberance really didn’t belong in a place like Easy, but he sadly suspected Lipton would just have to learn that on his own. 

“Okay,“ Speirs stopped them in the middle of the-blessedly empty- hallway, holding up a hand in the universal ‘please shut up’ signal, “I think I have...several questions.” 

“Stop by my office sometime, Ron.” 

Lipton threw in easily, tossing the hard-nosed C.O. a sunshine smile full of teeth that made alarm bells go off in Dick’s head. _Oh young and beautiful Carwood; what the hell do you think you’re doing?_ Winters didn’t know if he was filled with more relief or worry when Ron nodded and, as insane as it sounded, offered Father Lipton a small smile _back._ Jesus...and Dick thought _he_ was making bad decisions.

* * *

The hallways of Ad Seg seemed 100 miles long and dauntless as Dick stared down its length. At the very end of the hallway, the heavy, iron doorway leading into The Hole awaited him, as did one of his _previously_ most promising charges. This was the part of his job that he hated: having to confront his own failures head-on. The latest was a classically handsome lawyer, Webster, whose default expression seemed to be “Quiet Awe”. During the entrance interview, Dick had remarked how softly the inmate had spoken, with proper grammar that spoke of wealth and education. His last fleeting thought was “seems like a sweet kid” as the young man had laughed politely at an old reference he undoubtedly didn’t understand, and thanked Dick for the opportunity. 

The creature in The Hole was only recognisable as the same man by unearthly blue eyes, which were now bloodshot and red-rimmed like he’d been crying for centuries. His dark curls were a tangled, sweat-dampened mess, and the crop of rugged facial hair felt plain wrong juxtaposed to the tender red of his mouth. A patchwork of purple, black, and yellow bruises littered the miles of bare flesh; gone already was the healthy tan he’d entered Easy with. As Dick crouched down beside his prone naked form, David didn’t even regard him. 

“I’ve already talked to Bill, and he won’t give Schillinger up. And Schillinger says you provoked him.”

“...”

“They won’t add more to your sentence, seeing as nobody was able to prove who took Michaels and Nicky out, but-”

“Is Liebgott okay?” 

Webster’s voice shook and weezed, a typical effect after an entire month of disuse. Although,as much as Dick tried to not think about it, he suddenly couldn’t help the suspicion that Webster was probably the type of inmate who’d spent his first three days in The Hole screaming himself hoarse."

His eyes narrowed as he turned over the question in his mind; was this all _his_ fault for letting Liebgott put Webster in his cell? Or would Webster be screaming himself hoarse for a different reason entirely if the troublemaking Joe hadn’t stepped in? Something cracked and broken crept into the still horribly angelic eyes the longer Dick stared at the younger man, and he felt his resolve and resentment towards the kid crumble.

“Liebgott is fine. He should be released from the hospital in probably a day. I just wanted to make sure that there was no...bad blood between the two of you, before I let you both back into Easy Co.” 

“I...I can stay?” 

Dick wanted to kick something at how soft and young-sounding the meek little question was, but for Webster’s sake, he only nodded gravely. He dropped the roll of clothes that had remained forgotten in his grasp in front of the shaking boy and fixed his gaze on a water stain in the wall as Webster shuffled himself into decency. 

As Dick turned around he caught a flash of a faded fingerprint wrapped around one of the man’s hips before grey trousers were tugged over the curve of his ass. He swallowed down bile and forced himself not to wonder whose fucking fingerprints were already marring this poor soul’s flesh.

“David” The man flinched at the use of his own name and something foul twinged in the pit of Dick’s stomach, “before I can send you back...I’m sorry, son, but I’m going to need to know that Liebgott’s not going to retaliate on your behalf.” 

A bolt of energy crackled white-hot in Webster’s previously dead stare, and the sight evoked stories of when angels had come to Earth and burnt the eyes out of the sockets of the nonbelievers. For the very first time since Webster had stumbled past the rusted gates of Easy Company, Dick could believe that the kid might have ended up in the right place. He might even _survive_ this place.

“Liebgott doesn’t give a scum-sucking fuck about me, Mr. Winters.” the reply came whispered, but with great conviction. 

And it strangely didn’t make Dick as happy to hear as he thought it ought to.

* * *

Dick entered the prison break room the next morning and let some of the stress roll right off of his shoulders as he spotted most of his staff circling around a single table. Warmth filled him as he casually observed Harry retelling one of his many wild tales from his youth, making Lipton giggle and even producing a blessed little chuckle from Doctor Eugene Roe. 

As he finished filling up his mug, with it’s faded “World's 2nd Best Dad” nearly peeled off, his eyes met Roe’s from across the room. The flash of rounded blue abruptly invoked the hellfire blue flames of Webster’s tormented gaze from yesterday, and Dick tried to shake it off like a swarm of locusts. He guiltily moved his attention down from Roe’s eyes to the chapped, pink slide of his mouth. 

Taking the young doctor to bed had been a mistake, and thankfully Eugene had been wise enough to keep it a one time thing. To this day, Dick couldn’t quite explain how or why it had happened. Lipton apparently thought Dick had seen the altruism and similar optimism in Gene and had clung to it. Lewis thought that Dick had daddy issues and Roe was a ‘tight-assed tight ass’. He’d surmised that it was most likely a healthy mixture of both. 

“Mornin’ Father, Speirs, Compton, Doc.” 

“Jesus,” Buck sputtered, “you know you’re supposed to _sleep_ in the bed, right buddy?” 

He let the loathed nickname go only because it made Roe’s dark blue eyes sparkle with mirth as he sipped delicately at his black coffee. _Mistake, Richard._ He reminded himself even as his icey eyes flicked over the image of Gene’s long fingers wrapped around his cup, the knuckles still bitten red from the cold. _No more dark haired boys for you._

“Liebgott and Guarnere are being released today, right?” Lipton asked, trying to sound as uninterested as possible. Lipton really was the worst liar Dick had ever come across, and it never failed to astonish him just how _bad_ he was. 

“Try not to piss yourself in excitement, Father.” Harry jabbed at the overly eager priest, which had CO Speirs huffing a single amused breath into his mostly empty cup. 

“Correct. Guarnere has been a disturbingly model patient, which worries me a little bit.” 

As Gene continued to drone out his report on how the ward was handling their sudden influx of inmates, Dick listened to his unhurried drawl and tried to remember where Gene had told him he was from. Something with an ‘L’...

“And I _knew_ Joseph was okay when he asked if I could get him red jello instead of green, because, and I quote, ‘I'm pretty sure they flavor the green shit with jizz’. That man’s quite the poet.” 

The whole table chuckled with exasperated shakes of their head, and what wasn’t being addressed hung in the air like a bloated body from a tree. It buzzed in Dick’s ears until it’s pitch was unbearable and unavoidable, and he was thankful when Speirs’ steel tone cut through it.

“So was-did Schil-”

“His larynx was crushed, but that was the most grievous harm Liebgott received, thankfully.” 

Something shockingly similar to relief flit through Speirs’ mossy green eyes, which was so uncharacteristic of the man that Dick nearly doubled over. He prayed that Speirs wasn’t doing something stupid like screwing the kid; that would _crush_ Lip. But then again, what exactly was Lip supposed to do about that if he was? Celibacy wasn’t something you played fast and loose with, especially if you were a man of the cloth. 

An insistent buzzing in his slacks pulled him out of the dark hovel of his thoughts, and within two paces, he already had his cellphone tucked right back against his pale, freckled cheek. “ _Hey you,”_ came the syrupy slide of Dick Winters’ next dark haired mistake through the tinny speakers of his hand-me-down phone. He closed his eyes, letting Lewis’s chatter of lasagne and political jargon wash over him, and allowed himself to sink just a little bit further.


	5. Straight Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Roe comes face to face with Irish Mafia Leader Edward "Babe" Heffron, plus : Webster's anticipated return to Easy!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, following the episode titles for each of this chapters has already bit me in the ass, because there's like nothing straight about literally any of the things going on here! Anyways FINALLY the long awaited baberoe meet..cute?
> 
> INSANELY MAJOR SHOUTOUT TO LAURA @anthrobrat and MARIA @mariamegale for being the world's best betas!!!!! also some of the baberoe dialogue STRAIGHT UP maria's like god bless supportive and creative friends honestly

Dr. Eugene Roe was known amongst his constituents as a great many things: namely,  _ young _ , but also focused, steady as a mountain, and professional to his core. He had been called every awful name under the sun by men three times his size, had been told in no uncertain terms that he was “perfect jailbait” and much worse, and had still administered to those patients the utmost medical care. Even as Liebgott snarled at him and called him a ‘quack fag’ (new one) for trying to ‘hold his hand’- translation: remove Joe’s IV carefully - , Gene continued to quietly go through his list of ‘care suggestions’ for the moron’s bruised throat. 

Suffice is to say: Eugene Roe was one cool cucumber. So...why was  _ this  _ brand new patient getting under his skin so much?? 

“Ey, Doc! Small fry! Doctor Blue Eyes!” 

Gene took his time finishing up with Liebgott, sending the troublesome man off with a final tip of “don’t wind up back in here anytime soon, got it Joseph?” before he icily turned towards his redheaded menace. Babe Heffron was sat up on his cot with his body splayed out like a contented cat, his mouth still pulled into a sharp little smirk. Seeing the blatant ‘manspreading machismo’ of this actual  _ boy  _ made Gene itch to point out that Heffron was probably the exact same height as “Doctor Small Fry”, but something made him refrain. Perhaps it was how thin and fragile Heffron looked, in spite of his raised chin and aloof attitude. Gene was a man who saw directly through that, and he approached Heffron’s splayed body with a cold, stone-faced look. 

He picked up Heffron’s injured palm in complete silence, not feeling even a little bit sorry as Gene deftly wiped at the wide gash to clean it, eliciting a wince from the other man that Gene was sure he’d loath himself for making later on. He wasn’t so sure what it was about this kid compared to all the others that had him so unhinged; honestly, he was surprising  _ himself.  _ He watched the man out of the corner of his eye as Heffron brought a cigarette up to his lips with his good hand. His digits shook and his hazel green eyes drifted up to the ceiling, no doubt concealing his pained grimaces as Gene wrapped him up with a bit less care than he usual would. With his thin, golden-red eyebrows pinched upwards, he looked both too young and incredibly old beneath the fluorescent lights of the hospital ward, the yellow lights cutting lines into his thin face that really did not belong on the face of a 20 year old. 

A story Father Lipton had told flitted into his mind unwillingly, and Gene glanced briefly around to make sure there were only sleeping patients around them before asking: “Did you really do it?”

Heffron’s eyes rolled lazily over to meet him as Gene rolled back in his chair, hands idly seeking out Heffron’s medical chart for something to do, “Well, I done a lot of things, Doc. Could ya clarify?” 

Gene could only raise his eyebrows and avoid Babe’s eyes, unwilling and unable to actually say it out loud. Carwood  _ was  _ a bit of a gossiper and it wasn’t crazy to think that the man might’ve stretched the truth for the sake of his audience. Plus, looking at the kid playing Daddy in his father’s shoes so poorly it made Gene’s stomach turn, he found himself wanting Edward Heffron to tell him it was all rumors and lies. 

"Oh, that,” Heffron said, when he understood what Gene was on about. He licked his lips, looking over Eugene’s shoulder as he continued, “you asking if I tossed my kid in the trash. Yeah, I did that.”

His tone was airy and rehearsed; Gene suddenly got the feeling that Heffron told this story quite a bit, and probably in order to gain  _ respect  _ from his fellow inmates. He swallowed around the sudden intense need to vomit, watching as Heffron’s legs started to lazily swing as he went through the motions of reliving the moment his life took a dive:

“Fucking thing wouldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t fucking think over the sound of it.”

“Babies cry, Edward.” 

Heffron’s only sign that he heard Gene’s choked up whisper was a brief flicker of his eyebrow before barrelling on ahead, his words a blur like he needed to get all the poison off his tongue and into Gene’s head.

“‘ _ Babies cry’, _ that’s a funny one Doc. Smart mouth like yours, I bet you’d get into some real trouble if you an’ me switched places. Plus there’s also the…” 

Hazel green eyes dripped down his pale, skinny frame in a way that looked copied from men who genuinely meant that gesture; on Heffron it was so unbelievably forced as to be sad. He wondered if Heffron just adopted the speech and facial patterns of the gruff, evil men he was trying to control, or if he actually had performed some of the nightmarish acts that Gene saw the bloody end of each week. His brain forced him to try and picture it, Heffron shoving some other inmate around in the showers, and the images just simply did not compute. Then again, Gene had a hard time imagining the kid  _ throwing out his baby,  _ and now Heffron was confirming that he did indeed do that. 

“Yeah, but see, my girl was going off, too. I can deal with one of them screaming, but not both.” Eugene couldn't draw the doting out any more, so he just bit the bullet and looked up at Heffron. Edward moved his gaze over, too, locking their eyes. He was taking a drag from his cigarette with the same nonchalant lean of his wrist, but with something unsettling in his eyes. 

“So I’ve got her in one ear, the fucking baby in the other, I’m telling her to fuck off and go check on the kid but she keeps fucking chewing me out for some bullshit about the dishes or what the fuck ever.” Another lick of his lips, and Eugene couldn't look away from those blank eyes for the life of him. 

“I tell her to shut the fuck up, that she’s driving me nuts, I try so fucking hard but she doesn’t listen to me. I just want some quiet, you know? But she just fucking wouldn’t, so I decide fuck it, she won’t go quiet, the kid is gonna have to go quiet. So I stuff it in a trash bag, she’s yelling herself hoarse, the baby’s yelling itself hoarse—“ he laughed around another drag of his cigarette. “It’s fucking chaos, Doc.”

“Did throwing it in the garbage make it stop crying, Edward?” Gene’s voice was very quiet, and Heffron’s shrug was very casual, as was the way he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. 

“Nah. Did shut the fucking girl up, though,” he said, and there was something about the flatness of his voice that made Eugene’s stomach turn. “So I guess you could say I won that one.” He leaned back with a satisfied sort of look to him, blowing a stream of smoke out through the side of his mouth, and letting his gaze dance over Gene’s upset frown and shaken eyes:

“Aw, c’mon, like you ain’t ever wanted to shut someone up so much you feel like you’re losin’ it? No ditzy nurses or nagging Ma or crazy girlfr-”

“No.” Gene said sharply, eyes like flint and ready to spark up a forest fire, “Not ever. Not once.”

Babe rubbed at his own mouth, eyes narrowed right into Gene’s own as if he was calculating something, “...No to the crazy, or no to the girlfriend, Gene?” 

Suddenly Gene was all too aware of the proximity of their bodies, and how Babe’s body had gone from lax to coiled in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible based off the others’ easygoing nature up till that point. For the first time since they’d begun speaking, Gene was a little  _ afraid  _ of Edward Heffron, and how easily this boy seemed to be able to pick him apart.

He cleared his throat and wheeled back again, fixing his tired eyes on Babe’s vitals on his clipboard and willing his heart to slow back down to normalcy. He was  _ not  _ going to dignify Heffron’s prodding with a response, even if he DID have him pegged. There had never been a goddamned girlfriend, crazy OR sane, and how Edward determined that within ten minutes of them talking had Eugene spun up. 

“The timing of your hand getting cut up by ‘a mysterious stranger’ happening around the exact same time as The Wiseguy’s showdown with The Aryans seems awful convenient. You’re SURE you don’t wanna tell me if you were helping out your friend, Webster?”

“Webster’s a prag nazi fuckhole.” The words came out of Heffron’s mouth, but all Eugene could hear was O'Terry Heffron sitting on that gurney, and it made Gene’s chest give a violent lurch. Like a shadow passing over, Edward had vanished and Irish Mafia Bad Boy Babe Heffron was sitting before him in his place. Something crazy in Gene is sad to see Edward go. 

“Well, if any details like that should happen to come back to you, Father Lipton’s office is always open. ...As is mine, if you’d prefer that.” 

Babe’s eyes flew to meet Gene’s in wide-eyed shock; Gene was right there with him. Never, in his history working for Easy, had he ever extended an invitation for an inmate to come into his  _ personal, private office _ . A peculiar little smile flickered on and off of Babe’s face, eventually falling into place as Babe gives a little nod and a  _ wink  _ at Eugene.

“It get lonely in that office a’ yours, Doc? Hell, maybe I’ll take that offer. Anything to get a moment away from these ugly chucklefucks in this place, hm? Hey, am I free to go? My boys are waitin’ on me to make my triumphant return.” 

An easy, happy grin was across Babe’s freckled, youthful face as he said this, and Gene doesn’t know how to handle it. A part of him wanted to demand Babe Heffron stay, because he knows what happens to young men who look and act like he does inside these walls. He knows that Easy will take one look at his faux-alpha cockiness and pretty face and destroy him until he’s unrecognisable. But saying that will just have Heffron stabbing him, which wouldn’t do either man any favors really, and so Gene just shrugged and nodded stiffly. 

“Please, Ed-Heffron, be careful out there. Promise to take care of yourself, yeah?” 

Babe’s eyes were twinkling as he turned and started walking out of the ward backwards, “ Aw, why would I do that, now that I got you to take care a’ me, Doc? Same time next week?” 

Gene hated himself for the way the mocking invitation actually makes him feel warm all over, and hated Babe Heffron for making it sound like a genuine come-on just to see the gay doctor squirm. Not that Gene is exactly flaming but somehow Heffron just  _ knew.  _ As he moved his kit over to the next inmate’s bedside, he told himself not to get worked up about it, and blatantly disregards the notion for the rest of his shift. 

* * * *

David Webster’s return to Easy was a slow, sorry looking shuffling that was backed by a chorus of catcalls to welcome him home. This time, however, the ex-lawyer doesn’t flinch or even seem to register the filth being hurled at him. Joe would hesitate to call it an improvement,though, when there’s this dark shadow cast across the younger man’s face, making the bright eyes he remembered from a month ago seem dull and desaturated. Like a true fucking clown, he finds himself missing the disney-princess sea blue shininess. 

Joe’s eyes zeroed in on the bent and creased Uno Cards in his hands, feigning nonchalance as Web mossied his way over the table he’s sat at with Wild Bill and Joe Toye. An absurd tingling started at the nape of his neck as Webster’s slip-ons entered his periphery, shifting weight from one foot to the other and back again. When Joe finally raised his head, after coaching himself to remain cool and bored by Webster’s return, he felt he’d been punched in his still-bandaged throat. Webster wasn’t even looking in Joe’s general direction; those tired, blue eyes were honed in on  _ Bill fucking Guarnere  _ of all people. 

“I-Bil, tha-”

“Don’t fucking thank me, Webster. Not unless you want rumors that you’re giving it up to me too now.” Bill’s being cruel to be kind, but it’s still rough to watch Web flinch and cringe at the blunt truth. Bill won’t look up from his cards, but there’s an odd twist to his mouth that could be construed as regret. After a moment, Toye cleared his throat and absently kicked an empty chair towards Web, who blinked down at the object in quiet shock.

“Need someone with a brain to play against.” 

Toye grunted and shrugged like he hadn't just committed a massive Easy faux-paus in broad daylight. There’s the glimmer of tears in David’s eyes that they all pretend they cannot see, and all four men at the table dealt Web in without another word. And with the exception of the violent trembling of David’s fingers from time to time, for the short while, they can just pretend like they’re five buddies playing cards. After a month of hell, it seemed almost too kind and good to be real, but Web commanded his brain to shut up and accept the moment of peace for what it is. Even if Liebgott’s scowling presence in the chair next to him was methodically digging into the layers of his skin. Not even Lieb’s palpable hatred could take this away from him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some Oz/Prison terminology notes: 
> 
> -jizz: respect/social currency  
> -tits: slang for drugs, usually heroine  
> -prag: slur used for men forced into sex


End file.
